‘I am very interested in that story, of course. But the fact that you are leading the investigation is of equal interest. You who have hands-on experience with a serial killer.’

Archer feels nauseous and picks up her pace.

Hamilton follows her. ‘Tell me your story. Tell me about young Grace Archer. The girl who survived.’

Archer crosses William IV Street. Hamilton is still on her tail.

‘Tell me about Daniel Jobson. What happened to little Daniel, Detective? You and Daniel were the last of Bernard Morrice’s victims. But you escaped . . .’

Archer’s heart is pounding, she feels dizzy and the walls of the surrounding buildings seem to close in around her. She hurries up Chandos Place, Hamilton’s voice following her like an echo from her past. She cannot think about any of that right now. It is over. It is history. The present and the future are what matter now.

She sprints up the steps to Charing Cross Police Station and crosses the office, enters the incident room and slams the door without thinking. She sees her team, including Hicks and Felton, looking across at her and then quickly turning away. Hicks is the only one whose gaze lingers longer than it should and she is sure his thin lips are curved into a smile. Ignoring him, she craves some time alone to think and sits by the window, staring out at the gunmetal clouds and breathing slowly through her nose. She closes her eyes for a few moments and when she opens them she sees Quinn looking in at her with a puzzled expression.

Archer has no choice but to push Hamilton from her thoughts for the time being.

She beckons for Quinn to come in.

‘Everything OK?’

She removes her coat and drapes it over a chair. ‘I’m fine.’

‘As long as you’re fine.’

Archer rubs her palms together and recalls Quinn’s abrupt confession about his son and his emergence from the Corpus Christi Church afterward.

‘How about you? Are you OK?’

He shrugs. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Good. We’re both fine then.’

‘Fine as fine can be.’

‘Excuse me, Detective Inspector Archer?’ comes a voice.

Archer looks across to see a young Indian man carrying a briefcase standing at the doorway.

‘How can I help you?’

He smiles. ‘I’m Krish from Forensics. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

‘Come in and close the door, Krish from Forensics,’ says Archer. ‘This is DS Quinn.’

‘Nice to meet you . . . both.’ He smiles again and steps inside.

‘Take a seat,’ says Quinn.

‘I was hoping Sir Peter Davis would be here.’

Krish sits at the table, Archer and Quinn sit opposite him.

‘Why would the Home Office be here?’ asks Archer.

‘The Home Office?’ says Quinn.

‘I tried to call you, DI Archer, but your phone kept going to voicemail.’

‘My phone is broken.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’